A plague o’ both your houses! They have made worms’ meat of me.
A gentleman that loves to hear himself talk and will speak more in a minute than he will stand to in a month.
Good King of Cats, only one of your nine lives!
Peace? I hate the word, as I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee.
True, I talk of dreams, which are the children of an idle brain.
He jests at scars that never felt a wound.
Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.
You are a lover. Borrow Cupid’s wings and soar with them above a common bound.
If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.
I am not here. This is not Romeo, he’s some other where.
My grave is like to be my wedding bed.
Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man.
Men’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze.
Help me into some house, Benvolio. Or I shall faint.
Why, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline, torments him so, that he will sure run mad.
Is the day so young?
More than prince of cats, I can tell you. O, he is the courageous captain of compliments.
I’ll be hanged, sir, if he wear your livery. Marry, go before to field, he’ll be your follower.
For this alliance may so happy prove, to turn your households’ rancor to pure love.
By my heel, I care not.
True, I talk of dreams, which are the children of an idle brain, begot of nothing but vain fantasy.
A plague o’ both your houses! They have made worms’ meat of me.
Men’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze.
Peace? I hate the word, as I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee.
Good King of Cats, nothing but one of your nine lives!
If love be rough with you, be rough with love. Prick love for pricking and you beat love down.
You are a lover. Borrow Cupid’s wings and soar with them above a common bound.
Nay, if our wits run the wild-goose chase, I am done, for thou hast more of the wild-goose in one of thy wits than I am sure I have in my whole five.
Conjure with ’em –Br Romeo!, humours! madman! passion! lover! Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh!
I am the very pink of courtesy.
O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you. She is the fairies? midwife.
Now art thou sociable, now art thou Romeo; now art thou what thou art, by art as well as by nature.
Why, is not this better now than groaning for love? Now art thou sociable, now art thou Romeo.
If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.
And, to sink in it, should you burden love?too great oppression for a tender thing.
A plague o? both your houses!
If love be rough with you, be rough with love. Prick love for pricking and you beat love down.
Men?s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze. I will not budge for no man?s pleasure, I.
True, I talk of dreams; which are the children of an idle brain, begot of nothing but vain fantasy.
An ’twere so, ’tis not to much; zounds, I was come to the whole depth of my tale; and meant, indeed, to occupy the argument no longer.
I conjure thee by Rosaline?s bright eyes, by her high forehead and her scarlet lip, by her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh, and the demesnes that there adjacent lie, that in thy likeness thou appear to us.
Peace? I hate the word, as I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee.
I am hurt: A plague o’ both your houses! I am sped. Is he gone and hath nothing?
Thou talk?st of nothing.
Benvolio, Who began this bloody fray?
Draw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons.
Could you not take some occasion without giving?
I will bite thee by the ear for that jest.
I mean, sir, in delay we waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.
Good king of cats, only one of your nine lives.
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